by Stan Hayes
“You did? Then-”
“Oh, honey, you thought that he and I ...”
“You mean you didn’t?”
“No. Jesus, even I have to draw the line somewhere. I think we probably both thought about it, and came to the same conclusion; it was just too creepy somehow, so we never even discussed it. He fucked your mother and mine, for Chrissake! Now I was attracted, at first, to Dieter, but then he… well, the entire time in Cuba was pretty much a bust for me, sexwise. I was looking forward to getting with you in Havana, but of course Castro and company blew that for us. So, baby, here we are, and no need to wait up for the old boy. We'll see him at breakfast.”
“Shit, Linda; I'm having trouble digesting this as fast as you're throwin’ it; he's like a dad to me; I haven't seen him in nearly three years, and I'm supposed to just hop out of bed in the morning, say ‘Hi, Pete, thanks for bringin’ my lover back in one piece?’ ”
“Well, you could say that, sweetie, but actually I'm the one who brought him back. C’mere and gimme some gratitude.” From what I’d been able to see so far, the years since we’d been together hadn’t been that hard on her body, and seeing her in the warm light of the bedside lamp at thirty-five confirmed the impression. When I was sixteen, I’d imagined her as a hammered copper statue, come to life. Tonight she was a bowsprit nymph, a slim shining reflection of the sea. “Get that oil on top of the chest of drawers, would you, baby?”
What was left of the next morning pretty much took care of itself. We could see Pete- that's what I’d decided to call him- out on the beach, so we dressed, got coffee from the pot that he'd made, and joined him. A lot had changed in a little over twelve hours, and I felt pretty good about most of it. A little put off, maybe, about Linda wanting me to do her butt. She said that she felt she couldn’t ask me to do it before, but now would I please, because she needed it to complete the act of love. And once I got the hang of it I kinda liked the way she whispered ‘Fuck me, Daddy!’ every time I pushed in and I got able to live with the shit aspect. Looking back, I hate to think that I might’ve left her hanging all those times, when she always seemed pretty well whipped. Live and learn, I guess.
Seeing us, he shouted “Mornin’, guys.” I was glad to see that he’d ditched that fruity white shirt. Standing there on the beach in a swim suit, he looked a lot more like the old Mose. And there was no question that he was happy to see us together. “Ya just missed th’ porpoise sweepstakes,” he said, with a sweeping wave toward the ocean. We walked down to the water, side by side, splashing calf-deep in the cool, gray Atlantic. But this time Linda wasn’t in the middle; I was. Pete took the right side, where the water was deepest, while Linda splashed along on the shore side, ankle deep. “Hope you weren’t worried about what I thought about you kids bein’ together,” he said. “We just got too pressed for time last night to talk about the old times. You really put one over on me, shitbird; when Linda told me about the way you guys carried on in New York, I laughed like a sonofabitch.”
“You know, as funny as it sounds now, I was afraid that if I told you, you might tell me something I didn't want to hear, like what a bad idea it was for me to be involved with an ‘older woman,’ or maybe that you might give Linda the version of that warning that applied to her. All I knew was that seein’ Linda made visitin’ Dad a lot more fun than it used to be.”
“I thank you,” said Linda, “and the New York Bureau of Tourism-” giving my butt a vicious pinch- thanks you.”
“Well, you know I might’ve done sump’m like that, too, for you guys’ ‘own good;’ wouldn’ta made me look too smart in hindsight, would it?” And that was his last word on the subject.
Sensing that it was, I asked him, “Did you get Mr. Hunt straightened out on Cuba?”
“He seemed ta be pretty straightened out already,” Pete said with a smile. “I don’t think I was able ta tell him a thing he didn’t already know. Didn’t seem to upset him; he said he was happy just to get the perspective of another American who had spent some time in Cuba durin’ Batista’s last days. Mostly, we talked about what I’d seen in my day-to-day contact with Cubans; how strong their support for Castro appeared to be six, twelve, eighteen months before the march on Havana.”
“Did you tell him about Dieter gettin’ killed?”
“Sure. Couldn’t see any reason not to. Just described him as a friend we’d met in Havana and invited to share our hacienda. He was real interested in the story, and sympathetic; it was the only thing, really, that I told ’im that really piqued his interest.”
“Of course,” Linda interjected, “you weren't about to tell him about Lídia’s daughter.”
“Hah! Not in a million years. You remember Lídia’s story, Jack.”
“Sure,” I said.” You obviously looked her up.”
“Yeah; turned out she’d married a doctor by the name of Sánchez. They were livin’ out there in Oriente province, close to where she grew up. Linda and I paid ’em a visit; it was quite a reunion. They seemed pretty happy; his politics’re way over to the left, so I guess it was natural that their daughter, Célia, would adopt his ideas. She moved even farther to the left as she grew up, and joined up with Castro in the Sierra Maestre very soon after he returned to Cuba. Accordin’ to Lídia, she’s now one of a handful of his trusted advisers, ‘right up there,’ she told me, proud as she could fuckin’ be, ‘with Ché and Raúl.’ ”
“Good God!” I said. “Ché. Guevara. I've heard of him, guess everybody has ...”
“Raúl’s Castro’s brother.”
“Whoa! Good thing you kept that to yourself. You never know who a guy like Hunt may be talking to next. You could have more ‘consulting’ business than the law allows.”
“That’s right; he's an interestin’ guy, but I’ve had enough of Cuba ’til they finish killin’ each other, if they ever do.” And that was pretty much all he had to say about Cuba for the rest of the three weeks or so that we were together. Three weeks couldn't make up for three years, but we managed to put a pretty good dent in the large lump of loneliness that I'd lived with since seeing the old boy off in ’56. And the name is starting to seem pretty natural to me now; it helps, of course, to remember that it’s his real name.
“Well, boys,” Linda said, “If you think you can do without me for an hour or so I’ll go gas up the boat and pick you up for lunch.” She looked at me. The one thing this place doesn’t have is a dock, so you’ll have to swim out when your hear the horn. See ya. Oh. Mind if I drive the Buick?”
As she walked away, Pete put his arm around my shoulder. “How’re you doin’, buddy?”
“Notsa bad, I guess, considerin’.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry that business with Hunt came up last night, but maybe it was just as well. You got some time alone with Linda, and now you get some with me.”
“And not a minute too damn soon; I’m still workin’ to keep my feet under me.”
“I know; I feel pretty much the same way, although I know a little more about what you’ve been doin’ since Dieter and I took off that day in ’56. Anyway ya look at it, it’s a long time for best friends not to see each other.”
“That’s for sure. I hab’m even had the chance to tell you what a great funeral you had.”
“Oh. Ya know, I never gave much thought to that. I know it couldn’tve been any fun, even though you knew I was OK.”
“Yeah. Mailing me that postcard from “Sylvia” on your way down was a nice touch. You’dve been pleased at the turnout; quite a few people in Bisque that thought a hell of a lot of you, and were damn sorry you were gone. I don’t think Mom’s over it yet.”
“I’m sorrier about that than I am about anything that had to do with this, Buddy. I loved her the way I expect I’ll never love again, and I’m sorry that you had to bear the frustration of our situation on top of everything else. I had no right to ask you to do what you did, but it was the only way I could see to get everybody clear of Bisque. Maybe if I’d been a little bit
more of a genius ...”
“Well, I’ve been thinkin’ about it since you left, and I haven’t been able to come up with another way to get it done. And it had to be done, didn’t it?”
“Either that,” said Pete, “or continue the Bisque experience while I was hearin’ footsteps and you were ... what?”
“Not gettin’ rich,” I laughed.
He laughed, too, and tightened his grip on my shoulder. “Guess you could say we both got ‘rich’-” he raised his hands in front of him to make the quotation marks- “by accident. Well, after the last couple of years, I’m ready to explore the process of gettin’ a little less rich- on purpose. Hope you can see your way clear to join me down here while we figure out what else life’s got in store for us.”
“Sounds like a damn fine idea. I’ll run on back up to Bisque in a few days and see what I can do about gettin’ things closed out there. One thing’s for sure; we’re gonna need the bikes. I’ll get ’em crated up and sent down here.”
“Better not, ’til we find a place to keep ’em. I’ll let you know. I’m damn sure ready for some ridin’; hab’m had a bike under me since my last ride on th’ Shadow.” He paused, then said, “Listen; you’re still the only one that knows the whole story. And ya always will be. Linda thinks that the whole Cuba exercise was just to get Dieter out of the KGB, and that I did it because he saved my life in Spain, which of course is true. She didn’t need to know any more than that. She thinks that I became Pete Wessel as part of the operation. So, please, don’t tell her any different, regardless of how things turn out between th’ two of you. OK?”
“Sure it’s OK. I told you back in Bisque that I’d never tell another soul, and I wasn’t makin’ any mental reservations when I said so. I figured you’d let me know when, or if, anything changed along that line.”
I guess a little of the pique that I felt crept into my voice, and that Pete picked up on it. “Hey, buddy,” he said, pulling me around to face him. “I know that. If I hadn’t been certain of it, I could never have trusted you with my life in the first place.” He looked at me for another long moment, then with a quick shake of his head said, “No. I felt sure you could handle it, but I really didn’t have any choice, because there was no way that I’d let you think that I was dead for even a second. That’s why I did it; simply because I had to.”
I gripped both his shoulders and returned his steady gaze, as steady, that is, as a gaze can be when both parties’ eyes are full of tears. “I know that, Pete; knowin’ that’s what got me through this.” That, I thought, and a bunch of Flx briefings. “Hey, man, you’re gettin’ me outa th’ Bisque morass, along with you guys. But when I saw Linda ...”
“You thought things’d changed. I don’t blame ya. In your shoes, I’da thought the same thing. You put a woman into any situation, and all bets’re off. Don’t get me wrong; as women go, Linda’s the absolute best. But women can get men to do things for ’em that’re, well, the only word I can think of right now’s irrational. Happens millions of times a day, all over the world. So damn if I can blame you for thinkin’ she was leadin’ me around by my dick. Nice to know it ain’t so, idn’t it?”
“Very damn nice,” I said, grinning at him.
“One more thing, though. I need to even things up with you about sump’m.”
In spite of his smile, my stomach plunged toward my shoes. “What’s that?”
“Remember the day you quit football?”
“Don’t guess I’ll ever forget it.”
“You surprised me that day; more than once, but what I’m talkin’ about’s when you got outa th’ car at school.”
“Oh.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m beatin’ ya to it this time. I love ya, shitbird.” Opening his arms wide, he took the necessary step toward me to wrap me in one of his trademark hugs, which I was happier than ever to return, and not give a shit who saw us, even though I doubt anyone did.
“I love you too, Pete. And thanks for sayin’ it. I haven’t heard it from my Dad since I was five years old.”
“You know sump’m, buddy? I never heard it from mine. My mom, sure, all th’ time, but never from him. I wonder how different things might’ve been if I had.”
We drank a lot of rum in various Coconut Grove and South Beach joints while Pete, as he put it, “gathered a market sample.” Sometimes he’d bring a sample home, sometimes not; meanwhile Linda and I went at it like sables in heat. The days began late, as a rule; we spent a lot of time on the water, cruising the local waters in Striker and looking at used amphibians as possible replacements for the F3F. Pete said that he thought some island-hopping might help us gather our thoughts about the future, and we looked at a few ex-military multis- PBYs, UFs and SA-16s. He’d logged some twin-engine time in Cuba, but not enough to go for a rating. With our own aircraft, of course, we could log time in a hurry.
Driving to the store to pick up some beer and baby oil one morning, I’d just turned onto the highway when Flx flew in the window. “Howdy, podnuh,” he screeched, perching on the back of the seat.
“Howdy your own damn self; where you been?”
“Just fartin’ around while you get your horns clipped, ol’ sport. They short enough to suit you yet?”
“They’re gettin’ there,” I told him,” But I’ve still got some work to do. Had a little bit of a dry spell to get over.”
What he said then made me glad birds can’t smirk. “Yeah, addin’ buttfuckin’ to your repertoire oughta let you pull even a little quicker.”
I wanted to bat his ass into the back seat, but thought better of it since I didn’t want him going away to sulk, or whatever trans-temporal birdlike immortal beings do when they’re pissed, right now. Instead I slid him some sarcasm. “Guess you’re gettin’ a big fuckin’ kick outa watchin’.”
“Oh, not so much; I’ve seen buttfuckin’ by experts; Alexander and Ptolemy spring immediately to mind, but Pete ain’t so bad himself. He’d applaud your generosity with th’ baby oil.”
“I’d like to see you try it. That’d be a sight to see, flappin’ your goddamn wings around tryin’ to get that stinger of yours inta sump’m.”
“My equipment ain’t the issue here; it’s yo shaft that’s gettin’ chapped. You don’t need to be fallin’ inta that thing and lettin’ it slam shut on yo’ ass.”
“Don’t sweat that; I’m gettin’ back to work in a few days.”
“Back to dear ole Biscue.”
“Bingo. Gotta get out of th’ beer business if I’m gonna play games with these two. She’s takin’ me back on Striker; up the Intracoastal as far as the Savannah River, then hang a left upriver to Augusta.”
“That oughta be quite a trip. Maybe you can do a little stand-up butt work while she’s drivin’.”
“Why didn’t I think of that? Anyway, couldn’t very well turn ’er down. She said she’d heard too much about Bisque not to have a look at it for herself, and that there was no time like the present. What she said was, “I’ve gotta see the place that could hold both of you wild-asses for ten years.” So we’re castin’ off Friday, and next week Linda gets a load of Bisque, and vice-a versa.”
Well, sex ain’t all ole Pete’s inventive about,” Flx warbled. “Unless I miss my guess, he and that Hunt character ain’t seen the last of each other.”
“Well, I guess if the guy’s doin’ research on a book, he might want to talk to Pete again.”
Flx spread his wings, vibrating them in frustration. “You know damn well there’s more to it than that,” he squawked. “What yankee fucker’s gonna drop what he’s doin’ and start actin’ like a real-estate agent for a coupla strangers? I ain’t buyin’ it.”
“Then what the hell is it you are buyin’?”
“Not sure yet. But that sneaky-eyed fucker looks to me like he could cut your throat and smile at you while he was doin’ it. Cold, sneaky eyes. Who knows what he’n that damn Cuban’ve got coo
ked up?”
“Which Cuban’re you talkin’ about?”
“Linda’s friend at the blackjack table in Havana. He's the only Cuban I know of in this story, and least so far.”
“You know what? You are a very damn suspicious bird.”
“We’ll see. By the time y’all get back down here, I’m bettin’ Pete and these “Cuban interests” will be in each other's hip pockets. And here's sump’m else for you to think about, sport. How d’you know your pals’re tellin’ you everything there is to know about how they’ve gotten to know these guys?”
“What the hell d’you mean by that?” Jack barked at the bird.
“Can't say it any plainer, m’boy. ‘Playin’ games with these two’ might be a little more complicated than you’d like to think. Be sump’m to ponder while you and Linda’re tearin’ up Bisque. Call Rick,” he squawked. “It’s about time he got to watch you be in over your fuckin’ head with a woman. Might as well go for a case discount on th’ baby oil, shitbird!”
THE END
Appendix- Bisquespeak
There’s no getting around it- if you’re not from the deep South, you’ll think these people talk funny. Bisque’s idiom varies in frequency and application by the speaker's socioeconomic position and/or degree of inebriation. In the interest of understanding Bisquenglish, a brief glossary to ease the reader's plunge into its richness is in order:
Word/phrase
Translation
aiess
ass- used when referring to the ever-popular human posterior
Babdist
Baptist- a Protestant religious denomination that, with the Methodist church, dominates Bisque church attendance, particularly among the bourgeoisie
bwy
boy- from Negro dialect, increasingly adopted by young whites as a term of approbation among themselves
